


Flowers Not Recommended

by lecturience



Category: Naruto
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Gifts, M/M, Madara Rides Tobirama, One Shot, Overstimulation, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Tobirama Woos Madara, courting, sex jutsu
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:21:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22303285
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lecturience/pseuds/lecturience
Summary: It was a day like any other when Tobirama looked at Madara and thought:I love this man.The revelation was sudden—except for all the ways in which it wasn’t. He’d been falling for a while now, slow and easy andinevitable, and some part of him had known that.Determined to keep and be kept, Tobirama embarked on a slow, subtle courtship.It went well… until Madara clued in.Then it wentfantastically.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Comments: 66
Kudos: 953





	Flowers Not Recommended

**Author's Note:**

> I was musing on Madara’s courtship of Tobirama prior to the events of my _Intertwined Hearts_ fic, when I wondered: what if _Tobirama_ was doing the courting? Well, for one thing, he’d be a lot more… maybe not smooth, but less flaily about it. I decided to write it, to get the idea out… and it inevitably detoured to smut like halfway through. *shrugs* I am what I am.

It was a day like any other when Tobirama glanced across the office at Madara and thought:

_I love this man._

The revelation was sudden—except for all the ways in which it wasn’t. He’d been falling for a while now, slow and easy and _inevitable_ , and some part of him had known that. Now that he was _consciously_ aware of it… well, Hashirama often lamented about Tobirama’s focus on ‘can I?’ over ‘should I?’. It was mostly in reference to his experiments, but they _were_ what he did best, and if some of the same principles could be applied…

And so there was no hesitation, no second-guessing, and the question immediately became:

_How do I keep him?_

* * *

If all he wanted was to get Madara in bed, Tobirama thought he could manage it. He excelled at seduction. And for good reason—Tobirama had never been one to approach a new interest half-heartedly, so when he’d realised, in his late teens, that he was really rather curious about sex, he’d gone _all out_.

Hashirama had despaired at first. Partly at all the people ‘defiling his innocent baby brother’, but mostly because he’d worried they’d break his heart. That had stopped once it became obvious that Tobirama was very much the one doing the pursuing, and that all parties were very clear that he was only after sex. _All_ the sex. In every variation conceivable. Because good experiments required plenty of data.

Hashirama had taken on a policy of ‘have fun, be safe, but please never _ever_ tell me the details’ after that.

Tobirama’s ‘slutty phase’, as Tōka coined it, had lasted around a year. In that time, he’d thoroughly mapped his sexual preferences, refined his skills enough not to leave a lover wanting, and yes, learned exactly how to seduce someone into bed for no-strings fun.

But Tobirama didn’t want no strings with _Madara_. He wanted the opposite. He wanted _all_ the strings—to keep and be kept, to become part of a whole together. And that… that was so far beyond his expertise that Tobirama worried that he’d slip up, fall into old habits, and leave the man he loved with _entirely_ the wrong impression.

He needed guidance. A second opinion. And so he looked around at his nearest and dearest… and eliminated them one by one. Tōka was a shit-stirrer of epic proportions. He’d trust her with his back, his life, in a second. But trust her to not steer him wrong in romance just for a laugh? No. Then there was Hashirama. _He_ at least was blissfully married—unlike Tōka, whose interest in her partners began and ended with fucking—so he’d take Tobirama’s romantic plight more seriously, if enthusiastically. Very enthusiastically. And Hashirama really had no concept of discretion. It wouldn’t be long before half the village knew.

That left one option, and it was actually a good one—he went to Mito.

“Really?” she said, faintly incredulous. “Madara? Madara _Uchiha_? You’re sure?”

Tobirama laughed softly. “Yes. Positive.”

“Well, I suppose I of all people cannot question another’s taste,” was her dry reply. “I love my husband, I do, but he is…”

“ _Hashirama_.”

“Precisely.”

“But you wanted him. And you got him. Not the other way around, despite what most think. How did you do it?”

Mito had first visited Konoha five years ago, shortly after the village’s founding, as part of Uzushio’s diplomatic delegation. She’d taken one look at Hashirama, fallen hard, and set about sweeping him off his feet. With great success too—they’d married within just a month, renewing the Senju-Uzumaki alliance and cementing the Konoha-Uzushio one.

Tobirama was vaguely aware that there’d been some sort of courtship there. He wasn’t clear on the details though, because Hashirama had been a blushing, stuttering, swooning mess throughout most of it. Tobirama thought there were flowers involved?

…Would _Madara_ like flowers?

He asked Mito, and she pursed her lips.

“Perhaps, perhaps not. A courtship really needs to be tailored to one’s intended. Flowers appealed to Hashirama for obvious reasons, and they’re traditional besides—albeit more often given by a man to a woman—but would they appeal to Madara? You’re the one in love with him. Presumably you know him best. What does he like? What does he want?”

“Not flowers,” Tobirama quickly decided. “Hashirama has accidentally sprouted them all over the office a few too many times in fits of joy. It’s a mess to clean up, and has destroyed large chunks of completed paperwork more than once. I think if Madara was given flowers, he’d be more likely to set them on fire.”

“Not flowers then,” Mito agreed. “A pity—it’s a simple, small gesture, but rife with meaning.” A secret, knowing smile curled her lips.

He eyed her warily. “Dare I ask?”

“Flowers have a language all their own. Different blooms carry different meanings. And let us say that some of those meanings are… _suggestive_.”

Tobirama thought back to the few times during their courtship that Hashirama had come home _particularly_ red-faced, and had also dramatically hidden the flowers he carried like they were scandalous. Tobirama snorted and didn’t ask, because while _he_ wasn’t a dramatic idiot about it, Tobirama no more wanted to know the details of his brother’s sex life, or anything close to it, than Hashirama did his.

“Still, small gestures are important,” Mito said firmly. “Madara is as loud and dramatic as Hashirama, but even my husband enjoyed the little things, the ones that said I was thinking of him in subtle ways.”

Tobirama… wasn’t so sure about her assessment. Oh, _Hashirama_ was loud and dramatic, that was true. But he was also very free with his emotions—he was loudly happy, loudly sad, and loudly everything in between. _Madara_ was a different story. Half the time the man was loud it was because he was genuinely worked up or angry over something. The rest of the time, Tobirama had come to find, it was pure bluster to cover up discomfort, or embarrassment, or softer feelings.

Hmm, that was something to keep in mind. Madara wasn’t comfortable with his softer feelings being exposed, except sometimes with those he was closest to and trusted—mostly Izuna, but on occasion Hashirama or Hikaku—so a direct approach was probably not ideal, more likely to send the man into a flail and retreat. Small gestures though? Little things that could be passed off as mere courtesy, comradery? Thoughtfulness that might not have deeper meaning… _at first_?

That could work. Ease him into it.

Nodding slowly, Tobirama looked back to his sister-in-law with a slight smile. “Thank you, Mito. This has been… helpful.”

She inclined her head, expression wry. “I wish you all the luck—I fear you’ll need it.”

* * *

His first gesture was tea.

Caffeine was sometimes the only thing that got Tobirama through the long hours in their shared office, and more than once he’d seen Madara throw his cup an envious look. And so, the next time they had a late night, Tobirama made two cups. He set the second down in front of Madara, ignoring how he eyed it suspiciously, and returned to his own desk. He didn’t look over, but after a long pause he heard the pleased hum Madara made as he took a sip—as good as a thank you—and smiled slightly into his own cup.

It became such a habit that Madara only blinked, briefly surprised, the next time Tobirama sent a clone out for takeout and it came back with enough for two. They’d been stuck in particularly tedious back-to-back meetings all day, and had only a short break to both get lunch and look over notes for the upcoming meeting. Madara had simply resorted to digging a ration bar out of his desk drawer as he riffled through papers.

“Want some?” Tobirama asked, holding up the second pair of chopsticks and setting them down on the opposite side of his desk, then helping his clone open and arrange the various containers before it dispelled.

Across the room, Madara breathed in the spicy scents—one of his favourites, Tobirama very well knew—looked between the takeout and his ration bar with a grimace, then rewrapped and tossed the latter back into his drawer before grabbing up his papers and crossing the room. He dragged over the ‘guest chair’—a single, stiff-backed thing not good for prolonged use, because even early on when things were contentious, they’d both been in agreement about not wanting to encourage visitors to their workspace—set it in front of Tobirama’s desk, and tucked in enthusiastically as he continued his reading. Tobirama did likewise, and they ate and worked together in companionable silence.

When their lunch break ran out, and Tobirama halved the leftovers into two containers, Madara even gave him an ever so slight, distracted smile as he accepted one. Tobirama ducked his head and hurried towards the meeting room, lest Madara realise how pleased he was.

* * *

His first more tangible gesture, which could be interpreted as a gift, was a perch.

Madara hawked. It wasn’t something he was open about—a personal hobby, because his birds, while unusually clever, weren’t ninja-trained partners—but as his hawks occasionally liked to literally fly the coop and check in on their handler at the tower, it wasn’t entirely a secret either. More than once Tobirama had come back to the office to find the window open and a hawk resting on the back of Madara’s chair.

Once, he’d even seen one perched on Madara’s head, attempting to preen his messy hair. The comparison to a bird’s nest had been inevitable, and it had been early days then—back when Hashirama first hatched the idea to make them share space in hopes they’d ‘bond’… which had not gone well at first—so Tobirama hadn’t hesitated to voice the observation, all mocking and scorn. Madara’s shoulders had gone up, and he’d scowled and stomped back to the window, turning the bird out, telling it to go home. But _gently_ , Tobirama had noticed—he always handled them with care.

Tobirama felt bad about it in hindsight. He knew Madara well enough _now_ to see how genuinely defensive the reaction had been, the vulnerability it covered, and how much his hawks meant to him.

…Also, heart now filled with fondness for the man, Tobirama belatedly realised it had been an endearing sight, and cursed his past self for preventing him from seeing it again. The most he got these days were brief glimpses, when Madara was too tired or distracted to hear Tobirama coming, before he hurriedly ushered the latest hawk out with a scowl.

“Senju? What _is_ this?” Madara said, stepping into the office one morning and coming to a dead halt.

Tobirama glanced up casually. Or, well, _appearing_ casual—in reality his heart was racing, anxious at how his gift would be received.

“A perch,” Tobirama replied.

And it was. A solid, oaken thing, it sat in the corner of the room behind Madara’s desk. It almost looked more like a small tree in winter, perches spreading out like bare branches from the trunk. It had space enough for half a dozen birds, and the end of each branch was flattened and hollowed like a bowl—perfect for water or food. Overall, it was both vaguely artistic and utterly practical.

“How…?” Madara moved closer, tracing a finger over one branch that curved and stretched out beside where he sat.

“I had Hashirama make it.” Tobirama’s fingers tapped nervously, and though he ostensibly kept his eyes on his paperwork, his attention was very much elsewhere. “Figured your chair could use a break before it falls to pieces.”

Madara glanced at his chair’s back, which was in fact in rather poor condition, scratched and gouged by countless clinging talons.

“If you don’t like it—”

“No!” Madara shouted. Then he paused, cleared his throat, and sat at his desk like nothing had happened. “No, that’s fine. It’s…” He glanced at the perch again, something _soft_ in his eyes. “…acceptable.”

Tobirama said nothing more, but when he came back from his next meeting, there was water in at least one of the bowls, and a hawk had perched on that one branch by Madara’s chair. It was leaning over, gently preening Madara’s hair. The man looked up at him warily when he entered, but to Tobirama’s delight, he didn’t nudge the bird away. When Tobirama simply set down the second cup of tea he’d brought, and returned to his own desk to work, Madara visibly relaxed.

There was a smile on Madara’s face all the rest of the afternoon, and it warmed Tobirama’s heart to know that _he_ helped put it there.

* * *

Next came touch. Small, casual things.

A brushing of fingers when he passed over a cup of tea…

A hand on Madara’s shoulder to get his attention…

Leaning close to murmur in his ear rather than speak over loud voices…

Sitting and standing close enough to touch when either shifted…

Offering a hand up after a particularly late night at work…

Letting his grip linger _just a little_ …

* * *

One day, Tobirama settled on the edge of Madara’s desk, almost in front of him, and reached out to brush his cheek. It earned him wide eyes and a light flush—but no recoil, Tobirama noted, managing to bite his smile back from wide and delighted to something smaller, softer—and then an awkward little flail when Tobirama pulled out the stray feather he’d been meanderingly aiming for.

“It’s actually not a bad look on you,” Tobirama mused, and let his gaze linger on Madara’s face, his hair, with just the _slightest_ hint of his much deeper attraction. “But I think it wasn’t intentional.”

Madara’s flush deepened, and Tobirama leaned back before it could turn into defensive bluster.

Easy, _easy_ —don’t send him running.

Returning to his desk, Tobirama pretended not to feel the eyes on him as he twirled the feather between his fingers in consideration. Because he hadn’t been lying—not a bad look at all—and Madara’s birthday was in just a week. Tobirama had already made plans, but now… now he thought that perhaps the gift could benefit from a _slight_ alteration.

* * *

Madara’s birthday was the day before midwinter’s Rinne Festival. Tobirama knew it wasn’t uncommon for it to be lost in the grander holiday, which Madara found disappointing. Not that he ever explicitly stated _why_ he got a bit snappish whenever someone bid him a ‘happy midwinter’ around that season, even sometimes on the day of his birthday, but it wasn’t hard to figure out.

The moment Madara turned up to work that morning, a new crimson scarf wrapped around his neck—Izuna’s gift no doubt, as the man had surprisingly turned out to be a knitting hobbyist, and quite skilled besides—Tobirama met him at the door, set hands on his shoulders, and turned him right back around.

“What!?”

“No,” Tobirama said. “You don’t need to be in today.”

“I have paperwork, Senju!”

“I’ll take care of it. Go spend the day with Izuna. He’s expecting you.”

Izuna had given Tobirama a suspicious look when he’d approached him about it, eventually sighing with a muttered, “Well, I suppose it could be worse.” Apparently he’d suspected Tobirama’s intentions towards his brother for a while—at least since the perch. It was more approval than Tobirama had expected to get, and he wouldn’t lie and say he wasn’t relieved by it. He knew how deeply Madara valued his brother’s opinion—if Izuna had been vociferously against it… Tobirama wasn’t sure that was a battle he would have been able to win.

“You will? He is?” Madara said, bewildered, as Tobirama finally managed to push him out the door. “Why?”

Tobirama just smiled widely, not a usual expression for him—he knew he wasn’t an open man by nature, but it was… easier, with Madara, with the warm feelings he evoked—and Madara startled and stared. When he realised what he was doing, he scowled faintly, then threw his hands up with a “Fine!” and turned to stomp off.

“Happy birthday!” Tobirama called, just before Madara turned the corner.

When the man whipped back around, eyes wide, Tobirama smiled again and shut the door. He had two workloads to get done before he could leave. And then… a gift to deliver.

* * *

Izuna had agreed to make sure Madara was home by evening. He had even, after a long look with wrinkled nose, promised to make himself scarce. Tobirama thought Izuna was _vastly_ overestimating the progress of Tobirama’s intentionally slow courtship. While Madara had started to respond favourably to his gestures, it was entirely unconscious on the man’s part—he didn’t even seem to have realised what was going on yet.

He arrived at Madara’s house just as twilight turned to full dark, stars twinkling overhead as his breath frosted the air, and knocked on the door. After a pause, it opened, lanternlight spilling out as Madara stood blinking at him.

“Senju? Were there some forms I needed to sign after all?”

“No, nothing like that.” Tobirama lifted the wrapped bundle in his hand. “This is for you.”

“For— for _me_?”

“Happy birthday.” He held out the gift.

Automatically accepting it, Madara ran fingers over the rich indigo and crimson patterned fabric. Softly, he said, “But you already gave me a gift.”

“The office work doesn’t count.”

Madara ducked his head, but even through the thick fall of wild, dark hair, Tobirama saw that his cheeks were _pink_ , and bit back a grin. Madara unknotted the fabric and pulled it apart, and when he saw what was inside, he froze. Tobirama shifted on the stoop, shoving his hands in his pockets as he tried not to show his nervousness. He… he had _thought_ Madara would like it, but maybe it was too much?

Had he finally misstepped? Moved too fast?

“This is…” Madara breathed, lifting one of the clasps, which glinted even in the low light.

“A hair clasp,” Tobirama said quickly. “They all are.”

“It’s _silver_ , Tobirama. This— this must have cost a _fortune_.”

Tobirama shrugged. “Not as much as you’d think. There are seals inscribed on the back for strengthening and extra hold, and I traded them to the silversmith for a reduced price.”

It wasn’t entirely a lie—he _had_ given over the rights to the custom seals, and it _had_ cut the price, but… not enough to make the gift cheap by any means. Silver was _expensive_ , even more so than gold since the knowledge of how the samurai made their chakra-receptive blades had leaked—by folding silver into an alloy—making the metal highly sought after by ninja, and thus rare to find in more decorative items anymore.

There was a _reason_ the silversmith travelled with a sizeable, ninja-trained group of guards.

Madara turned the clasp over and ran a thumb over the seals revealed. “You designed these?”

“Yes. You, ah, you’re forever shoving your hair back, for all the good it does, but you’ve complained that hair ties always snap, and that clasps either break or slide off, and—” Oh, gods, he was _rambling_. Tobirama took a deep breath, calming himself. “It was simple enough. A nice little side project.”

There was a long silence as Madara carefully picked the clasps up one by one. They came in a variety of sizes, from smaller ones designed simply to pin back that bit of hair always falling in Madara’s face, up to clasps large enough to tie back the entire thick mass. It wasn’t only the back faces that had been engraved either, though the fronts were purely decorative. Each had a different design selected by Tobirama—stylized flames, an Uchiha fan, leaves for the village, feathers, and so on. Things that reminded him of _Madara_.

Though, speaking of feathers…

“The needle on the back? It’s strong and sharp enough to pierce a feather shaft. I thought… well…” Tobirama shrugged. His eyes lingered on Madara’s face and hair, as he’d done that day he touched his cheek, envisioning feathers once more adorning dark hair. “I did say it suited you.”

Madara’s flush deepened. Tobirama was suddenly glad for the frankly exorbitant price he’d paid, on top of the original cost, to have that added to each item. The silversmith had grumbled about the last-minute addition, and rush jobs, but he’d done excellent work—the needle curved along the line of the clasp so as not to interfere with the hair, and the sharp end tucked under a curled lip at one edge so it wouldn’t stab the scalp

As the silence stretched, Tobirama asked, “…Do you like it?”

“Yes! I— I mean— They’re lovely,” Madara admitted in a mumble. “Thank you.”

Tobirama hid his sigh of relief. “I’m glad you like it.” Nodding his head, he took a step back. “I’ll leave you to enjoy your night then. Happy birthday, Madara.”

Tobirama was so pleased by the reception of his gift that it was actually a struggle to keep composed. Quickly deciding to simply teleport straight home—so there wouldn’t be reports of him wandering the village with a lovestruck look on his face—Tobirama took two steps away, reached for the Hiraishin seal at his house and—

“Wait!”

A hand grabbed his wrist just as the world twisted.

Immediately upon landing in his living room, Tobirama turned and saw that Madara had been dragged along. The man stared around, startled, but then shook his head as if dismissing the sudden change in location as unimportant. He had the bundle of clasps pressed carefully to his chest, and when he met Tobirama’s gaze, his eyes were wide, mouth slightly ajar. Tobirama gave him a questioning look, and a faint frown creased Madara’s brow.

“You… The tea, and the meals, and the perch. And the _touching_. And now _silver_ hair clasps with _custom seals_?”

Tobirama’s eyes widened. Had he actually realised—?

“Senju, have you been _courting_ me?”

He _had_.

Tobirama’s heart felt like it was in his throat, beating a mile a minute. For all his study of the man, he wasn’t sure how to interpret the expression on Madara’s face. It was too still, too closed off, as the man so rarely was. Pulling up a mask of false calm was more Tobirama’s habit than Madara’s, who shielded with bluster. It made Tobirama hesitate, uncertain, but… whatever else he was, he wasn’t a coward.

He dipped his head in a nod.

“Oh,” Madara breathed.

And then Tobirama thought much the same—thought _oh_ —nerves melting away. Because Madara’s mask had dropped, and the expression beneath? There was shock there of course, but also… also _awe_.

Madara gently—carefully, _reverently_ —set his gift down safely on Tobirama’s coffee table. Then, using his grip on the wrist he still held…

He reeled Tobirama in for a kiss.

Tobirama didn’t hesitate for a second. It was everything he’d been dreaming of, and yet nothing at all like it—warm and soft, but so much _better_ than he’d been able to imagine—and joy bubbled up inside him as he pressed close. He tilted his head a little as their noses bumped, and something about that—about the angle?—niggled at his brain even through the haze of affection and slow-curling desire.

And then it clicked.

Madara huffed, pulling back a little. “What’s with the stupid grin? You’re ruining the mood, Senju.”

“Sorry, nothing, just…” Tobirama tried to press his lips flat. He failed. Because Madara’s nose, his eyes, his face—they were even with Tobirama’s own, despite him being an inch or two shorter. Tone teasing, Tobirama asked, “Are you on _tippy toes_?”

There was a distinct thud of heels. Madara’s eyes were abruptly level with Tobirama’s nose, and his cheeks were flushed as he crossed his arms and attempted to cover with a glare. The laughter bubbled up, and Tobirama couldn’t suppress it. Didn’t even try. He felt light and giddy and just…

Everything was _right_ in the world. Everything was _good_.

Madara’s expression softened, defensive posture relaxing. With a faux-irritated huff, he laced his hands behind Tobirama’s neck, tugging him down. He very pointedly did not rise up again, or even lift his chin to make things simpler. Tobirama laughed again, and bent down, and let himself be drawn into light, teasing kisses.

“Don’t complain later…” Madara grumbled half-heartedly between brushes of lips, “…when you have a sore neck or back… _Tried_ to be accommodating… Ridiculous Senju giant genes… Ingratitude… Brought it on yourself.” 

Tobirama hummed, pulling away. “I’m a ninja though—good physical conditioning and endurance.” He raised a brow in flirtatious challenge. “I’m afraid your vengeance might be in vain. You’d have to kiss me an _awful_ lot for it to become an inconvenience.”

“Hah! Don’t underestimate me!” Madara declared, flashing a grin, grabbing Tobirama’s hand, and dragging him towards the bedroom. “I don’t do vengeance half-heartedly, Senju. I’m going to give it my… _full attention_.” He paused on the threshold. “Unless you object?”

“Not in the _least_.”

Clothes seemed to melt away, and when they tumbled into bed, they fell into a playful wrestling match that Madara won easily. He sat astride Tobirama, pinning his hands down at either side of his head.

“You might be taller,” Madara said, looking down smugly, “but I outweigh you.”

And it was _all muscle_ , Tobirama noted appreciatively. His eyes trailed over Madara’s broad shoulders, his toned arms, chest and stomach, and the thickly muscled thighs that bracketed Tobirama’s hips. And speaking of thighs, his eyes couldn’t help lingering a bit around that… general area—he wanted to trace that crease from hip to groin with his _tongue_ —before finally dragging back up.

“Yeah,” Tobirama agreed, and it came out a bit more breathless than intended.

Madara’s brows rose, and though his cheeks were tinted pink, he smirked, pleased by the blatant admiration. He was the one to lean down this time, and there was nothing light about the kiss that followed. Madara bit at Tobirama’s lower lip, then sucked on it greedily before pressing forward, tongue delving into Tobirama’s mouth. He kissed like it was a fight, like he was proving a point. And Tobirama had no idea what that point _was_ , but he fully approved, and kissed back with equal fervour.

When Madara released his hold in favour of cupping his jaw, tilting the kiss just so, Tobirama’s freed hands immediately went to _those thighs_ , experimentally dragging his nails down them, and Madara made a startled, pleased sound. It was good, _amazing_ , but… not enough. There was so much more yet untouched. Tobirama propped himself up with one hand behind, free arm curling around Madara. His palm slid over the muscles of his back, humming at the feel of smooth skin interrupted by the occasional old scar. When Madara settled back enough for him to sit fully upright, Tobirama’s arms curled under the man’s shoulders, holding him close, and their cocks aligned, startling a moan from him.

“Fuck,” Madara breathed against his mouth. When he pulled back, his eyes were fierce. “ _I_ ,” he announced with all the authority he could muster, “am going to ride you until you _beg_.”

It was Tobirama’s turn to flush, and he pressed his forehead to Madara’s shoulder. Gods, he hadn’t blushed since he was a teenager.

Madara chuckled. “I take it you approve.” It wasn’t a question, too smugly knowing for that. “Now where do you keep the lube?”

Tobirama froze. “Shit,” he cursed quietly.

“Senju…? Don’t tell me you haven’t got anything!”

“It might have been a while?” Because even before deciding to court Madara, there had been long months that Tobirama spent pining, unconsciously but so genuinely that no one else had really appealed. His supply had run out at some point, and he’d never bothered replacing it because, “I’ve got a perfectly good jutsu substitute for personal use.”

“Wait.”

Hands gently tugged Tobirama’s hair till he lifted his head. Madara, he saw, was staring at him wide-eyed and incredulous… and also with something darker, something _wanting_.

“You have a _sex_ jutsu?”

Tobirama took in the expression again, and the hoarse voice, and… he smirked. “ _Jutsus_. Plural.”

And it was true. The development of a handful of intimate jutsu had been another result of his so-called ‘slutty phase’. Because Tobirama had seen—and _still_ saw—the prior lack of such techniques as a _genuinely_ appalling oversight. He understood that not everyone was as interested let alone skilled in jutsu creation as himself, but surely _someone_ ought to have tried applying it to sexual benefit before. It was like his predecessors had completely lacked inventive spirit.

Whenever he tried to make that argument to Hashirama or Tōka however, the former stuck his fingers in his ears and trilled “Lalalala can’t _hear you!_ ” while the latter cackled like a madwoman. Once recovered, Tōka had at least demanded to learn a few, but she had no interest in jutsu theory or waxing philosophical about their ancestors’ short-sightedness. Mito at least was in agreement with him, and willing to discuss it at length, but she’d regretfully declined to learn any of his jutsu _or_ to collaborate in the creation of others—Hashirama had apparently insisted on it, face so green she’d momentarily thought his skin had sprouted chlorophyll.

Meanwhile, Madara sort of… gargled. Then he slapped a hand over his face, dragged it down, and fixed Tobirama with a focussed, intent look.

“Okay,” Madara said deliberately. “I need details. _All_ the details. Specifically via demonstration. Starting with this lube jutsu.”

“Hmm, well…” Tobirama raised a hand and formed the dog seal, commonly affiliated with water techniques. “It’s less a jutsu and more pure nature manipulation.” He condensed vapour from the air and it curled around his hand. “Water is a changeable sort of substance—it can be solid, liquid or gas. When you add chakra to the equation, the… _viscosity_ , becomes even more flexible.” And, with a twist of his will, the winding ribbon of water thickened, glistening.

Madara swallowed. Tobirama wasn’t sure if it was due to the fact he’d just summoned lube from thin air, or the casual jutsu-less nature chakra manipulation, or the single-handed seal used for the entire affair. Either way, he smirked, taking one of Madara’s hands and letting the lube slide cleanly into his cupped palm. Madara stared at it for a long moment, then curled two fingers to dip in, rubbing them against his thumb to test the consistency—perfect of course.

Madara took a deep breath. “Until. You. _Beg_ ,” he said again, equal parts threat and promise.

And then Madara leaned in for another kiss as he reached that hand behind himself and—

“Wait,” Tobirama said. “Can I…” His eyes trailed downward, and he licked his lips, lying back again. “Can you come up here while you do that? There’s something I wanted to do with my tongue.”

“With your—” Madara blinked, then groaned, and quickly obliged him. “Yes. Fuck yes. Absolutely.”

Madara shuffled forward, kneeling wider across Tobirama’s chest. Tobirama propped himself up on elbows and pressed a soft kiss to one hipbone. Then another, open-mouthed and wet. Madara’s breath hitched, and Tobirama didn’t know if it was his doing or the man’s own, because Madara’s hand had disappeared behind him again. Humming, Tobirama found that line that had drawn his interest—inguinal crease, he thought absently—and licked at it, trailing his tongue down, down, down to Madara’s groin. The man groaned above him, free hand reaching out for the headboard to hold himself up as his shoulder shifted rhythmically—fingering himself, Tobirama realised, sending a bolt of heat through him. Groaning, he turned his head and peppered barely-there kisses down the length of Madara’s cock as the man cursed softly. His tongue darted out, curling around the head and teasing the slit, tasting salty precum and wanting more.

“Fuck,” Madara said, whole body twisting with his arm now, and hips bucking slightly. “I changed my mind.”

Tobirama froze, looking up at him. Did he not like this? Tobirama had never met a man who didn’t—and had thought if fairly clear what he intended, which Madara had seemed enthusiastic about—but there was a first time for everything, and Tobirama wasn’t about to ignore a ‘no’.

“As much as I would _love_ you to suck me—and fuck would I _ever_ —I promised to ride you, and I’m not gonna get the full enjoyment out of it if— _fuck_ —if you do that right now.”

Ah, that made a lot more sense. Tobirama hummed, weighing his options. He dragged his tongue up the underside of Madara’s cock, from base to tip, tearing another curse from Madara’s lips. He really, _really_ wanted to make the man come in his mouth, but… he wanted to have _his_ cock inside _Madara_ more.

Maybe there was a way to get both?

“Promise me a raincheck?” Tobirama all but demanded.

Madara laughed breathlessly. “ _Absolutely_. The second I’ve recovered.”

Good enough. Tobirama reluctantly leaned away, and Madara shifted back down to straddle his hips. Tobirama grabbed his own cock, unable to resist stroking it once, moaning, then held it steady as Madara lowered himself down and—

Shit. Fuck. Tobirama bit his lip, eyes squeezed shut, and breathed deeply. Madara was slick and tight and hot. _So_ hot. A tiny corner of Tobirama’s mind recalled that strongly fire-natured ninja ran a couple degrees hotter than most people, the same way water users like himself ran cooler, making the contrast all the more dramatic, all the more enticing and thrilling and—

He’d _definitely_ made the right choice. This was… not an experience to pass up.

“Good?” Madara asked, voice rough.

Tobirama opened his eyes and looked up at him, at dark eyes gone impossibly darker, lids half lowered, and hair a wild, midnight curtain around them as Madara pressed two hands flat to Tobirama’s chest and leaned over him. Tobirama licked his lips, one hand rising to thread in Madara’s hair. The other fell to grip his thigh, digging his nails in lightly for the way it made Madara’s eyelashes flutter.

“Yeah, you?”

Madara rocked and moaned. “Fantastic.”

And then he was _moving_ , rising and falling and riding Tobirama like he was _made_ for it. His thighs flexed under Tobirama’s hand, which smoothed up and down the muscles appreciatively. It occurred to Tobirama that he should be doing more than passively admiring, no matter how gorgeous and tempting a sight Madara made, so he bent his knees as much as he could without dislodging the other man, feet flat, using the leverage to thrust up every time Madara lowered. Madara groaned approvingly, speeding his pace, riding Tobirama harder and _harder_ right up until—

He stopped.

Tobirama whined, grabbing at hips and trying to tug down, or flex up, or— or _something_. But Madara was still stronger, and was having none of it, grinning down at Tobirama with teeth and taunt.

“Something wrong, Senju?”

“ _More_.”

“What’s the magic word?”

It took Tobirama a moment, then he snorted, throwing an arm over his face. “ _Really_ , Madara?”

“Said I’d make you beg.”

And Tobirama was a proud man, there was no denying it. But this? This wasn’t something he minded giving in on, more than willing to indulge Madara, especially if it would lead to mutual satisfaction. Only… only he thought they might both like it better if he didn’t give in? Or, not too easily. They both loved a challenge. So he raised his arms above his head instead, gripping the headboard, and stretched out in display and tease. His raised brow was a silent ‘that all you got?’.

Madara’s grin turned positively gleeful.

He rocked in Tobirama’s lap, in a way that was clearly doing wonderful things for his prostate if his increasing groans were anything to go by, but which left Tobirama frustratingly unfulfilled. And every time Tobirama tried to speed things along, to thrust upward, Madara just moved with him, denying him satisfaction.

Gritting his teeth, Tobirama paused as an idea occurred to him.

“I did say sex jutsus plural,” he reminded in a strained tone. Then, to be sure Madara didn’t disallow him the advantage, he made it a dare. A _challenge_. “Unless that would be too much for your self-control?”

Madara’s eyes narrowed. “I can take anything you can dish out, Senju.”

Tobirama immediately smirked, deeply enough for Madara to look wary, to brace himself. But it wouldn’t be enough, not for what Tobirama had in mind.

Hands rose to form the snake seal. Both hands this time, because he needed the extra control. This wasn’t a water jutsu—not his natural affinity which came as easily to him as breathing. Moulding his chakra just right, so that it sparked instead of flowed, Tobirama’s fingers twisted, flickering through a series of seals.

“ _Lightning Style: Haptic Amplification_.”

The jutsu had actually been adapted from a torture technique—not that Tobirama was about to ruin the mood by telling Madara that—which triggered nerves in a blinding explosion of lightning chakra. Tobirama had refined it so that the chakra instead lingered over his hands like gloves made of light, and rather than triggering pain, it triggered _pleasure_. So when he reached up to smooth over Madara’s collarbones, the man shuddered. And when he traced the fingers of one hand over lips and the other over nipples, Madara _moaned_ , curling forward. And when one of Tobirama’s hands fell to his cock?

All it took was a single stroke for Madara to come _screaming_.

Tobirama released the jutsu in a glittering fall of light, and forced himself upright as Madara shook through his orgasm. He pressed close, stroking Madara’s back, and burying fingers in long hair, peppering his face with kisses. Eventually Madara sighed and leaned into him, lips soft and easy—

And then he shoved Tobirama back down.

“Not done with you yet,” Madara growled.

And then he was moving again, sliding up and down Tobirama’s cock with undiminished enthusiasm. But his face was twisted and whimpers escaped his lips at the almost-pain of _too much too soon_. Concerned, Tobirama gripped Madara’s hips and held him still for a moment. Madara frowned down at him.

“Hey,” Tobirama said gently, thumbs brushing back and forth over hipbones, “I’m fine. I can wait. Don’t— don’t hurt yourself.”

Madara’s frown faded and he laughed sharply. He peeled Tobirama’s hands away, threaded their fingers together, and regained his rhythm. He didn’t hesitate, and he was— he was angling himself _purposefully_ , Tobirama realised. Hitting his overstimulated prostate on every thrust. Because—

“Trust me,” Madara said, tone strained but _deeply_ satisfied, “I’m not just doing this for _you_.”

Oh. Oh! Well then. If he _liked_ it, that was another thing altogether.

Tobirama leaned back and watched, enjoying the show. Madara rode Tobirama with intent, clenching down _just_ the right amount, but still pausing every now and again when Tobirama got too close. Tobirama squeezed their still linked hands tightly, panting and desperate, hips arching up. Madara’s face and chest were still flushed from his orgasm, his expression, between twists of pleasure-pain, was slack with bliss, and he kept making those desperate whimpering sounds that—

It was too much.

Tobirama _needed_.

“ _Please_ ,” he bit out before he even realised it.

Madara froze. Looked down at him. And then he grinned, wide and utterly triumphant and infuriatingly smug. Or it _would_ have been infuriating, if Tobirama wasn’t so far gone on the man as to find even his ego endearing. It didn’t hurt that Madara finally stopped dragging it out and began to fuck him like he meant it—no tease, no taunt, no holding back. There was no room for annoyance when Tobirama was swamped by pleasure and the promise of an end in sight, gripping Madara’s hips tight and fucking up sharply, _frantically_.

“Come on, Tobirama,” Madara rasped. “Come for me.”

And it was that—not ‘Senju’, but his _given name_ on Madara’s lips, for the first time ever—that threw Tobirama over the edge, head tossed back on a long moan as he finally, _finally_ came.

As Tobirama lay panting, Madara leaned down to kiss him, slow and filthy. When he pulled back, he met Tobirama’s gaze with such a grave look that Tobirama tensed, wondering what he’d missed, for this night—this dream come true, everything he’d hoped for—to have taken a sudden turn for the worst.

Tone demanding, Madara said, “You’re taking me out for an actual fucking date.”

Tobirama laughed, utterly relieved. “Midwinter festival tomorrow night?”

Madara nodded firmly, and then went back to kissing.

* * *

When they met up for their date the next evening, Madara had half his hair pinned back with a silver clasp trailing hawk feathers. Even better, he’d chosen the single clasp Tobirama had dared to base not on Madara’s own tastes, but in reference to himself—it was engraved with cresting waves.

Madara pulled him down for a kiss of greeting, distracting enough that Tobirama didn’t notice till Madara drew back, hands trailing slowly away, that he’d clasped something round Tobirama’s neck. When he looked down, he saw a chain of silver. Briefly, he wondered if Madara had gone to the same silversmith to acquire it, but the thought was forgotten once he got a good look at the pendant that hung from it. It was one of those intricate, blown-glass pieces unique to a handful of Uchiha artisans.

It was a perfect replica of Madara’s Mangekyō Sharingan.

Any resurfaced doubts Tobirama had started dwelling on about old habits, and wrong impressions, and how _maybe_ falling straight into bed—while utterly amazing—hadn’t been the best choice, dried up at once.

“I don’t share,” Madara said gruffly, shoulders tense.

“Good,” Tobirama said without hesitation. Because they hadn’t discussed that, and he… he’d _hoped_ , but hadn’t been sure. “Nor do I. I’ll be only yours if you’ll be only mine.”

Relaxing, Madara nodded firmly. Then he huffed and turned to stomp away as if his face wasn’t flushed, heading for the bright festival lights.

His hand slipped into Tobirama’s as he went, drawing his lover after him.

**Author's Note:**

> My MadaTobi romance tends to go straight from ‘confession of mutual feelings’ to ‘and then they boinked’. I considered maybe being a bit more sophisticated this time, adding some plot and relationship development in first, because feelings are great but not _all_ a relationship needs to work… then I laughed, dismissed the idea, and got back to the smut.
> 
> Also: sex jutsu! Why aren’t these a thing? Why, in all the smutty Naruto fanfic I’ve read, have I never come across one!?!? (I challenge you, fair readers: Go forth and correct this travesty! Write sex jutsu into your own fanfic!) Even just the lube jutsu seems super obvious and also super feasible. Because if mere chūnin Izumo can turn water chakra into syrup, you bet your arse Tobirama can turn it into lube. Easy as.
> 
>  _Also_ also: I’m really tempted to write Mito’s epic courtship of Hashirama. Her being outwardly a Very Proper Lady, but also suave as fuck, sweeping Hashirama off his feet. And Hashirama acting like an infatuated teenage girl, while also _trying_ —and largely failing—to appear as a Very Serious Hokage to the public, because Tobirama and Madara both insist that’s important. It just… has the potential to be both fun and hilarious.


End file.
